how cheap the body. how blinding when the flesh betrays itself. how far away you found the flame and how

tepid the water when it’s left empty, a haughty scab you could excise in one scrape and without pageantry.

it’s difficult to feel any pity or passion when the meat hangs from crusted hooks. like regarding a stiff cupboard hinge or

something written wrong. something worn smooth by wind water or sand. maybe something rotten but varnished.

keep reading things biblically if you want to hear only of plagues and never of the plagued. the characters sometimes stay the same.